Thoroughly Ravished
by Galiko
Summary: I got convinced to write a 'drabble' about Bunny in thigh highs. It turned into outright porn. Lol, I'm not sorry. Here's the full length of it, all parts combined.


**Thoroughly Ravished**

**[500 Themes: 266]**

* * *

><p>"What are you <em>wearing?<em>"

The question makes Barnaby glance up from where he sits upon the couch, legs stretched out along the length of it and primly crossed at the ankle. "What do you mean, 'what am I wearing'? You've two eyes."

Kotetsu sweeps over to the couch with those words, calloused fingertips brushing first at one, lean ankle, clad in silky black stockings that were_far_ too formfitting to be ignored. "Thigh highs, Bunny?" His gaze narrows. "And one of my shirts. Just what are you trying to do?"

Barnaby merely looks back at him, a picture of innocence – even as Kotetsu's hands urge his legs to uncross, even as those broad, strong palms sweep up the length of his legs, tracing along the inside of one knee, nails picking at the soft fabric. "My legs were cold. _I_ was cold."

And as warm as he might have been with Kotetsu _touching_ him like this, Barnaby can only shudder. The older man's slip up higher, splaying over his inner thighs, pressing into the glimpse of pale flesh peeking out between stockings and the long, button-down shirt. Kotetsu's lips follow the slow, sinuous rub of his fingers into flesh – that languid, digging press and massage that legs Barnaby to groan and spread his legs wider, his head tipping back as he gulps in a breath to steady himself.

The slick warmth of Kotetsu's tongue gliding over a cord of muscle nearly makes him whimper. "_Cold_ my ass," Kotetsu mutters, open-mouthed kisses littering over the square of skin that he chose to worship. "You do this on purpose."

"Maybe," is the breathy response, and Barnaby hisses with the nip of Kotetsu's teeth – the parting of his lips to _suck_ on the soft, sensitive flesh of an inner thigh. He's leaving a mark – Kotetsu is _marking him_, and the thought as well as sensation leaves his toes to curl.

Even if _he_ had meant to tease in the first place, how is he suppose to last through something like this?

The next mark Kotetsu leaves is placed just beneath the jut of his hip and Barnaby squirms, sucking in a harsh breath as he grabs for dark hair. But just as quickly as he _tries_ to grasp for the man, Kotetsu has shoved his hands away, releasing the captured skin with a slick, hard suck and instead grabbing him by the hips, a hard shove flipping Barnaby succinctly onto his stomach.

Kotetsu's hands are on him again, then – pushing up the hem of the shirt and raking his hands boldly over the curve of Barnaby's rear. With his face pressed into the couch, Barnaby can scarcely remember to _breathe_ – his hands are white-knuckled, grasping at the cushions, knees trembling as he is hoisted up onto them and deliberately, no matter how _whorish_ the action seems, sets them further apart.

"Minx," is the low accusation. "Not even any underwear, and now this."

What else is there to do but _shudder?_ Kotetsu's hands palm over him, rough and kneading and touching and _grabbing_ so surely that Barnaby thinks he'll bruise. _Good_, he can't help but think; he wants to be able to show those marks off later, wants a _reminder_ of how Kotetsu shoves him into the couch, drags him closer, marks him, _manhandles_ him –

Barnaby whines when Kotetsu's touch suddenly disappears, the sound of a belt swiftly undone and zipper being pulled down following. The blond swallows hard, daring a look over his shoulder through the mussed curls of his bangs, hoping to _see_ exactly how riled Kotetsu has become.

He both regrets it and _doesn't._

Over his shoulder, Barnaby can see as much as feel the grind of Kotetsu's erection as it presses against him, slides against the cleft of his rear and leaves him shivering, _aching_ from sheer need. Hot – he's hot, flushed, the sinew cording his thighs tensing with every jerk of Kotetsu against him, his own lips parted to better suck in short, ragged pants of air.

"Kotetsu, _please_ – "

Barnaby sees Kotetsu _fumbling_ for something – digging into the cushions of the couch, retrieving a tiny, lone bottle. It almost makes Barnaby laugh, because would that have _ever_ been there months ago? No, no, of course not – _he's_ the one that has driven Kotetsu to be just as goddamned depraved as him at times. _He's_ the one that taught Kotetsu that lazing around on a couch, wearing thigh highs that cling to his legs like water, does _not_ merely mean he's _cold._

And god, is Barnaby anything but cold right then. He's panting, clawing into the cushions, head tipped back so that he can gasp towards the ceiling when Kotetsu's suddenly slick, wet fingers are probing at him, a pair of them wriggling their way inside. He nearly _sobs_ as they twist, spreading, stretching him wide – pressing deeper and _curling_ so perfectly that his hips buck, his own straining cock desperately wishing for some sort of friction to grind against.

"F-fuck – " And only Kotetsu can make him so _obscene._ Barnaby's tongue flicks out, running over his lower lip, his teeth nipping into it to stifle something that would have undoubtedly been a mewl had it escaped. Kotetsu merely_laughs_, twisting his fingers to press them deeper and Barnaby nearly comes right then, his back bowing, his muscles tightening, breath raggedly escaping through his nose as he grits his teeth and tries to hold on.

"That's it, isn't it, Bunny?" Kotetsu's voice is a rumble against his back as his fingers slide out, leaving Barnaby to sag, head turning to press a flushed cheek against the cushion beneath him. "You can't stand it. Tell me what you want."

"You." The admission came far too easily, far too needily. Barnaby didn't care. He shoved himself up onto an elbow to better look back at his lover. "I w-want… you to just hold me down – and fuck me. I want you to shove every inch of your cock inside of me – I want you to _own me._"

Barnaby definitely sobs out loud when Kotetsu's hand is suddenly withdrawn, those amazing, mind-numbing fingers leaving him with nothing but a feeling of loss. His next huff of breath fogs his glasses and he half-heartedly shoves them up and off, blinking away the spark of overwhelmed, overeager tears from the corners of his eyes.

He _aches._ He's a trembling, too-warm mess – sweat matting his curls to the back of his neck, the flush of his skin making everything almost unbearable, even down to the scrape of the couch material underneath his knees and arms. But his world quickly refocuses to where the head of Kotetsu's cock presses against him, suddenly as slick as those damned fingers had been, and Barnaby can only sharply _inhale_, head thrown back and lips parted as Kotetsu slides into him in one, deep thrust.

"_Yes_ – " What else can he say? He can't even hear himself over the thud of his own pulse in his ears, the rapid stuttering of his breath and Kotetsu's own groans behind him. Their hips bump together, so starkly flush that Barnaby can't _breathe_, every whimpering, whining inhale and exhale forced rather than some natural instinct.

Kotetsu is hard and stiff and so _hot_ inside of him, stretching him wide and making him dig half-moons into his own palms, mirroring the bruising hold on his own waist as Kotetsu grabs him, splaying his fingers wide over Barnaby's ribs. With every forward jerk of his hips, Kotetsu pulls him _back against him_, drags him into each thrust, pushing his cock that much deeper and Barnaby just gives up, his arms sliding out from beneath him, his forehead pressed to the couch as his body buckles_. _

His voice is probably nothing but mindless, heated chants of _yes, yes, yes_ -_harder, deeper, faster_ – any sorts of thing that will encourage Kotetsu to simply_use him_, to hold him down and fuck him. Every slick, deep slide makes his toes curl, and Barnaby is simply _lost_, drowning in everything that is Kotetsu, every shred of heat shared between them, every growl in his ear, every promise that he _is_ Kotetsu's, that he belongs to him and that god, _yes_, he's going to be fucked until he can't see straight –

True to that promise, vision is a thing lost to him. No matter how wide his eyes snap with the sudden, sharp twist of too-hot pleasure in his groin, there is_nothing_ that Barnaby can see but white. Probably, he's shrieking. He can't quite connect his actions with his mind as he claws into the couch, twists partially onto his side and Kotetsu just holds him by the hips and fucks him all the same, drags him closer and refuses to let him wriggle away as he sobs from the overstimulating of coming while Kotetsu just keeps using him until he, too, spills himself deep inside of Barnaby's spent, sated form.

"God," is the mindless, senseless sort-of-prayer that escapes Barnaby's lips first and foremost. It's heavy and slurred and he'll be embarrassed about how he can't talk properly later, but right then, he doesn't care. "Do that again."

"Five minutes," comes Kotetsu's groan of a response, a warm, wet kiss pressed to his shoulder, and Barnaby isn't sure if he starts laughing or crying (what are his emotions _doing_ at this point, after all) because oh, god, can he even handle that if Kotetsu is being serious?

He needs to wear thigh highs more often.


End file.
